


The Fall of a King

by Matloc



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Ancient Civilization, Contracts, Curses, Desert Fantasy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, God!Kuroko, King!Akashi, M/M, Misanthropic!Kuroko, Zoroastrian Mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matloc/pseuds/Matloc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Kuroko blithely considers decimating all forms of human life, just to see if their precious temple shatters from the keening screams of their worshipers.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>    <em>“I am a god who is not meant to be worshipped, Akashi-san.”</em></p>
  <p>    <em>“Then let me be the first, the only one to worship you. Not as a god but as Kuroko Tetsuya. Become mine, Kuroko.”</em><br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Star of Myrrh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arachnophobia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arachnophobia/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE YOU SPIDEY I HATE YOU SO MUCH I was gonna post this whole thing as a 15~20k words oneshot but I just realized the first 8k words are boring as hell so I'mma just throw out the intro arc as a first chapter so people can skip this trash chapter when I finish and post the rest of the fic.
> 
> WHICH IS WHY I'M GONNA MAKE YOU SUFFER SPIDEY HAVE FUN READING THIS TRASH IT WILL MAKE U END UP SCRATCHING UR EYES OUT I HATE YOU SO MUCH FITE ME R.I.P. BRO ILY <3333
> 
> sorry for making you all go through this wall of text (of trash)

 

 

The blessed land of Rakuzan is known for a great many things. One being its new-found prosperity. It bathes in its opulence of yearlong harvest, with its people sharing just as much wealth in the kindness of their hearts. They can only thank their king for it all. Having only recently broken free from a reign that rode on the backs of youth and banked on the sweat and blood of warriors, the sand roads now sing with praise unto their savior:

With a name befitting an emperor he came riding with a flag that took the veil of blood from his hair and his eyes and draped it over the pillars of the Imperial Court. And as every wretched man fell on his sword, the people watched and called it the  _Coming of Hushedar_. For the man named Akashi Seijuurou heralded the fate of their ruler, written in scarlet.

He came leader of four, was crowned savior of thousands.

Like infant sun rays breaking through a dying storm, Akashi brought back their halcyon days with his arrival. On a snowy steed leaping through desert sands. The people were so mesmerized by its white mane that it became a symbol of good fortune. They weren’t mistaken. It rained down on them and resurrected their barren fields, gave birth to spring. Washed away the seeds of tyranny until the only scars that remained were impressions of ink on yellowed paper.

So bloomed the kingdom of peace under King Akashi’s rule, unfurling itself into the vast reaches of unknown lands and smaller nations. Many great men visited his court with lavish gifts on fagged out mules. Only to be humbled in the presence of the grand ruler, when they saw a god amongst men—

Or so the legend goes.

In his own eyes, Akashi Seijuurou is but a common man. When he looks in the mirror, all he sees is human flesh and muscle, nothing like the golden effigy standing on guard in the middle of town square.

He strongly opposed their gestures of idolatry, but the townspeople’s insistence won out as he was reminded of his mother, who often told him to receive every gift with honor. So he relented with a gracious smile and the city’s best sculptors came forth, hammer and chisel at the ready.

That still does not temper his reluctance to go down in history as a glorified king, whose number of worshipers is far greater than his feats. Never mind that he initially tried to reject the crown, offering his right-hand man—one Midorima Shintarou—the reins instead. That was also a failure and Seijuurou has since then decided that his men were getting too disobedient.

Seijuurou sighs as he reaches the end of the hallway, hand resting on cold metal. He pushes forward and the sight that greets him still manages to momentarily blind him, even after having been here several times. The throne room lies in the heart of the palace, a nexus connecting all important rooms, including his chambers. Which is why he often uses it as a shortcut. It is a rather convenient hub, normally occupied by several court officials since he holds regular meetings to discuss reformation policies and solve local conflicts.

The upcoming lunar festival brings slight changes to the itinerary for the week, however. When Shintarou debriefs him on the important traditions observed by the kingdom, he finds an opportunity to give himself some much needed space. Hence comes the announcement of the king’s approval of the planning committee. He gives leeway to all palace residents to participate, which somehow translates into endeavors to hold the biggest feast yet.  Commemorating their freedom from a millennium of hiding behind locked doors and screaming gallows.

The throne room now only opens to the king. He is glad to see that the guards have listened to his orders and stayed out of the room. He sees no reason for an empty place to be guarded, and the sober men dare not question their ruler. 

Though Seijuurou does understand their worry. The throne room is, as one would expect, a touchstone of the sheer opulence his kingdom boasts. A magnificent hall built in gold, every inch of floor to ceiling glittering yellowish metal. Silver lions stand against the pillar, only a recent addition made in honor of the new king. They have jewels for eyes, glimmering rubies. Nothing more than gaudy pieces of decoration, but the council argues that they embody the bravery of their king, much like the royal beast itself.

He is called a heroic figure, yet he is worshipped like a god.

Ridiculous.

He stops when gold shifts to blue, head snapping up to see, sat upon the red carpet steps, the gilded throne meant for him and him only. 

It is being occupied by another.

Seijuurou’s eyes widen as he takes in the lithe form relaxing on his throne. Sitting cross-legged, he holds the sky in a messy crown, fine locks brushing across his forehead. He is wearing a form of dress Seijuurou has never laid eyes on before. A black necklace glitters metallic around his neck, diamond-shaped onyx stones hanging from the twisted wire. A similar shade is draped over his shoulders in a sleeveless tunic that barely reaches past his midriff. There are bands on either wrist, looking thick and heavy, like cuffs.

Seijuurou’s gaze lingers a little too long at the exposed skin, a marble torso teasingly dipping into harem pants, and he sucks in a breath when the person finally opens his eyes. Those eyes—they evoke a faded memory from within. 

Seijuurou was but a waif when his mother took him to a farm that was matted with an endless sea of blueberries. When his fingers  encircled a stem and plucked his first berry. He remembers making a face saying how bitter it tasted, but his mother just laughed and picked a bigger one.

He remembers how there was sweetness, a tang that washed over his tongue. It exploded in his mouth with a liquid drizzle of sugar, and a sourness that pinched his palate and made him suck his cheeks in, prompting another exuberant laugh. That was the last time he heard it.

As he looks into those foggy blue eyes, he feels the scintillating pricks on every taste bud. Slowly, a familiar taste fills his mouth.

For the first time in sixteen years, after wiping clean any sensations linked to his mother from the door to his memories. The ones that tasted sweet and sour and the drip of everything in between.

_He remembers._

And after a second has passed, he forgets. He wills himself to reality.

“That is my throne you rest on.” He speaks, voice ringing clear in a steady tenor. It betrays no agitation, no indignation.

The blue-haired man raises his leg from on top of the other, most likely to straighten his posture before the king.

Seijuurou beats him to it, “You need not get up.”

The other man raises an eyebrow at that. “I wasn’t.” His reply cuts through the air swiftly, yet his voice remains soft like he holds not even a shred of impudence in the venom of his words.

With the way he sits on the throne, leaned back and comfortable as his hands play with the intricate carvings on the armrest, Seijuurou thinks the blue haired man looks very much like an emperor himself. It is his turn to furrow his brow as he regards the man with a curious spark. “Those are not the kind of words I would permit to come from the mouth of someone who’s taken the throne of another,” he challenges.

“A stolen throne belongs to none,” the other retorted, sapphire glinting in his eyes. Blue strands fall over his eyes as he traces the intricate grooves of the gilded throne, his mouth curling in what looks like distaste. “You may possess it, but presume not in your foolishness that you are its owner.”

Seijuurou stays still a moment, only the slight widening of red eyes giving away his shock. Never once has he been received like this before, not even his royal guard, all of whom have built with him the trust of a harsh decade.

Not even they have the gall to look upon him from above.

The frown marring Seijuurou’s face would have scared away any lesser man, but this one simply stares back, impassive as he is ice.  "I suggest you hold your tongue, should you be left at my mercy.“ His hands are already reaching for his sword, which he always carries with. He quickly grabs the silver hilt.

Someone else’s hand forces him to push it back down when he tries to unsheathe it. It happens in the blink of an eye, his sword—

"Nay, Akashi Seijuurou, you are at mine.”

It turns to ice.

No, perhaps it is more apt to say that it has been  _encased in ice_. But that still flays his warrior’s composure into an incredulous look. To have reached him so lightning fast, nothing else can explain it but a jump in time.

“Who are you?” he asks in an instant.

“I was once known as Kuroko Tetsuya, in a time unknown. Now I bear the title of  _Dahaka_.” His grip tightens and Seijuurou feels a ghostly chill raze through the nerves in his arm. “Young king, I am your death.”

Seijuurou rips his hand away from the stone grip, “You dare threaten your king?”

He doesn’t move from his spot, however, and the man—no, he is no ordinary man, that much has been made clear—leans closer. “It is only a message. You are not my king. A  _god_  serves no king.“

"God? You are?” Seijuurou’s mind cannot register what he’s hearing.

“I’m _**a**  _god. One who has been long forgotten,” he explains, but Seijuurou only brings his hand to his blade again.

He’s forced to look down at his hip when the ice numbs his skin. It isn’t just some inexplicable form of trickery then, though the shorter man looks too refined to be a court jester in the first place. His sword is frozen, and even in this desert heat it glitters white, not dripping in the slightest.

The other—what did he call himself? Dahaka?—glances at the weapon he’s rendered useless. “That is not ice.”

Akashi grunts, “I figured as much.” He looks up into blue eyes, “I see, you’re truly a god?” He asks, his muscles finally relaxing. Not once did the Dahaka—whatever that may be—actively threaten him, and it is clear he cannot use any physical means to overcome this being, should the need arise.

The Dahaka nods, “I am also the guardian of this throne you so cherish.”

It sounds like a thinly-veiled jab, so he replies, “It is not the throne, but the people that I have come to love.”

“Hmm,” the Dahaka tilts his head in thought, “I suppose it is mere human folly to indulge sycophants.”

In an instant, Seijuurou is speaking right in his face, “God or no god, I will not have you mocking my people.” It matters not that his frozen weapon hangs like mere decoration on the side of his hip. He will break it into shards and make use of their jagged sharpness if he has to.

There is a crack in the glacier, a frown on the other’s face that sends a curious tingle up Seijuurou’s spine. Like he has discovered something hidden in the crevasses. Maybe it’s not as empty as he imagined it to be, he thinks, as the god narrows his eyes. “You are an odd one, King. I could tell earlier was only a show of authority, but now—at the mere mention of your townsmen—you dare to threaten me with the impossible?” He sounds more troubled than anything.

Seijuurou steps back, looks out the glass wall straight into the blinding sun. The town of Rakuzan reflects its resplendent glory as it bathes under the bright rays. The houses are topped with terracotta roofs in vibrant colors, and the enormous common bath glitters blue. If he were a bird flying high in the sky, Seijuurou is sure to see a colorful garden of flowers blooming around layered marble.

It is just then that he makes a silent promise to become the soil that keeps his garden alive. To let it grow into a beautiful meadow and paint the earth with its flowers.

“Is it so wrong to love my nation, Dahaka? I am a man just as them, yet they have chosen me to be the recipient of such great honor. It is with this honor that I vow to protect them.”

Kuroko rests his gaze on the man, notices the barest of smiles playing on his lips, and confusion coats his own as he mutters, “Do you now…?”

Seijuurou’s vision shifts from the window to the god, but he finds his view hasn’t changed much. He sees that same color of the sky in Kuroko’s eyes, and it is with stone cold shock that he realizes he is as dazzled as he’s bewildered.

“What have you come here for, Dahaka?” he asks while he still can.

“Young king, I have not prohibited you from addressing me by my former name.” It is much easier to pronounce, Kuroko has learned in a lifetime of new meetings.

Seijuurou smiles at him, and he can’t remember when was the last time a king has ever graced him with one as clear as his. “Only if you call me by mine,” he says. If Kuroko were a common man, perhaps he would have been charmed by what’s meant to be an order in disguise. But memories from millennium past still haunt him with beguiling smiles and sickening caresses. He has fallen fool to this same charisma enough times to know when it is best to keep shy. To keep safe.

“Very well, Akashi-san.” And because he is a god, this is the highest honorific he shall bestow on the human.

Seijuurou nonetheless nods his approval.

“I am the guardian of this throne. You, with not an ounce of the blood of the Haizaki clan in your veins, dared sit upon it. Your act of foolishness will be the cause of your death.” He points to Seijuurou's hand.

Seijuurou heart stops for a second when a symbol glints in the center of his palm. He can hardly discern the shape in the single second it flashes for before sinking into his skin.

But he swears he sees a black serpent crawl across his palm and coil around his wrist.

“You did this,” he states once he catches his breath.

“False. You did this to yourself.” Upon seeing Seijuurou’s expression, Kuroko adds, “Worry not. It is only a contract,” he reassures in a monotone that only makes red eyes narrow further.

“And just what are the clauses you intend to give me?” the king demands, piqued. His hand wants to reach for the sword again, but the chill running down the side of his leg has not melted yet.

“Only two: starting today, you will see a hundred morning suns before I receive your soul upon the final sunset.” Kuroko announces with the eagerness of a sleeping camel.

Hundred days? This sounds more like a curse than a contract, but every curse has a way to be broken. He wonders how long it would take to lure the cure out of Kuroko's lips.

“Until then, my sole duty is to protect you with all my power.”

Now that comes as a surprise. “Oh? My very own  _god_  at my beck and call?” He fights the urge to smile when Kuroko shoots him a glare.

“No,” Kuroko replies calmly, but Seijuurou doesn’t miss the spark in his eyes. The glacier is finally melting, it seems. Something within Seijuurou twitches at that inference, like a creature moments away from awakening. “I will be guarding you at all times, for I am the only one who will take your soul.”

“Why such stringent conditions for a god such as you?” his question is sincere this time. Hailing from the far east, he knows nothing about the deities that rule over Rakuzan. Even Shintarou has yet to mention a name, only reciting legends of animals that can control nature.

Kuroko opens his mouth, but it takes a while for the words to come out. “I am the God of Death. I have no standing with the ones that live above your skies. I am not sure who created the stipulations, never have I questioned it—perhaps it was your maker. Although I have only met him once.”

Seijuurou tilts his head some, "You’re sharing more than what I asked for.“ He doesn’t oppose it, in fact he appreciates every new thing he learns about this enigmatic being. If only for the opportunity to use it against him.

"I have no reason to lie to a dying man,” Kuroko responds as though his open book honesty is born from a modicum of compassion Seijuurou hears nowhere in the god's flat tone. 

But it is a soft, pleasant sound, and Seijuurou thinks he wants to hear him speak more. “Then what—”

The doors slam open. “There you are, Akashicchi!” an ebullient cry shatters the quiet atmosphere in the throne room. The remains of Seijuurou’s interrupted inquiry lie on the floor, being trampled under the loud clack of boots as a man, whose hair almost blends in with the room, walks in. "I’ve been looking all over for you!“

"Ryouta, I do not recall giving anyone permission to enter this room.” Seijuurou throws him a sharp look, not hiding his irritation.

“How mean! You never used to scold me before we came here,” the blond pouts. It’s not until he’s right at the king’s side when he notices the other occupant of the room. “Woah—who are you!” he gawks at Kuroko.

It is only then that Seijuurou realizes that his left leg no longer feels numb. That the frost gripping his sword has long evaporated. So he looks at Kuroko, who’s too busy staring at Ryouta’s hair to answer his question. But he’s also fiddling with his fingers, fidgeting with his feet, and it sprouts a seed of sympathy in Seijuurou’s chest.

One must question, however, if it is really sympathy that drags the next words out of his mouth, “Behave, Ryouta. You are speaking to my future consort, after all.”

Time stops for a moment. Everything falls silent, still as the sky.

Until two heads whirl towards Seijuurou and exclaim at the same time, “ _What?_ ”

 

* * *

 

 

The air is light, flowing fast, carrying with it the rush of a rising storm. For a God of Death, he certainly brings with him an innocuous gale that catches you off guard even as it bites on your shoulders. The hallway stirs and threatens to come alive as something glides past Seijuurou and stops him in his path. His face only lifts in amusement when Kuroko seemingly appears out of nowhere.

“Please, do tell me about this inane tomfoolery you are playing at here,” Kuroko asks with a crease in his brow that makes Seijuurou want to poke it straight. He isn’t blessed with the towering visage of the forest of four trees he calls his royal guard, but even to him this god is a small thing. With baby blue hair and big eyes that change hues with the color of the sun, Kuroko only grows smaller as his all-black attire seems to pulsate like a void, swallowing the lily whites that make up his skin.

Seijuurou thinks this only makes him more dangerous. A bantling-sized animal with a bone shattering jaw and fangs that sink straight into the canals of your heart.

“Your caprice knows no bounds! Were you not the one ready to take a sword to my throat just hours ago?” Kuroko accuses hotly. But even in the weathering dry winds of The Loo, the air around him remains cool as if he wakes every morn in Himalayan springs.

“And I still am,” Seijuurou reminds him, “It is a must to keep your friends close, and wiser to keep your enemies closer.  _You_  are definitely not someone I can afford to keep out of my sight for too long.” He offers a sardonic smile.

But gods have never really had the patience for cheek.

Waving off the daggers Kuroko throws at him with a glare, he continues, “So I will have the people in this castle become my eyes.”

“What?” Kuroko’s words are a mess, a proud rose wilting away with all its beautiful petals. “Do you realize what your servant has been going around telling the very crevices of this palace?”

“Not a servant,” Seijuurou corrects him, though one is not to blame when they mistake Ryouta for his dog. “He does have quite a mouth, precisely what prompted me to tell him. Now that they have heard about me taking a consort, I can only imagine the constant surveillance you’ll be put under.” He allows a sigh of pity, but Kuroko sees right through it.

“I should kill you _now_  itself,” he bites out. His composure is melting, and the ego only a god could possess starts to peek through the dripping mire. It is as false as any counterfeit make of idols ready for worship—but which are mainly for decoration—and Seijuurou wants to crush it completely. Dig through the pieces for glittering dust, of a jewel he has only ever seen in the blue of Kuroko’s eyes.

“You can’t. A god of such lowly stature, who can’t even break his unwritten rules to kill me, has no true power. Is it not so?” And he is indeed not wrong, by the way Kuroko’s form tenses, how his lips purse tight to clog the silent disdain bubbling in his throat. Ever since time began walking, he’s always made sure to keep his emotions plugged, face a blank canvas that cannot be painted on, but this king—so utterly insolent. Carrying nothing more than the wisdom of a human, and be such people as old as ten or hundred years, they will always remain children in Kuroko’s eyes.

A wild quake rushes through his spine as he scowls at the redhead. Being subject to unwarranted slander, this is the first of his experiences. It is not at all pleasant, and he makes that much clear in his voice as he says, “That is not true.”

His denial sounds weak to his own ears, but this is the first time he has heard a human talk back to him. The surprise rips through like a thunderclap in clear skies, deafening.

It jams a corkscrew into a cluster of emotions that stay flattened under the gavel of time. Neatly ironed out, Kuroko wears them like funeral robes as he traverses the earth with the mark of Death. He is the frostbite that shatters bones, the rot that blackens trees, the drought that leaves cracks in the hearts of men. But Seijuurou’s taunt unwinds these feelings, until they threaten to pour out of his mouth and cover the entire earth with acid.

“Yet you cannot touch me until my last day, and I’ll ensure that it never comes to that.” Kuroko remains silent as Seijuurou stares him down, effectively ending their tiff. “Well then,” his expression lightens, “I do hope you enjoy Ryouta’s company.”

It is much too entertaining to see those big blue eyes widen even further in panic. As if on cue, a certain blond’s voice echoes through the hallway, and Kuroko is all but ready to bolt. Seijuurou doesn’t stop him, smirking as the blue-haired god bumps right into his biggest menace when he turns the corner.

“There you are!” his captor chimes. “Come with me, I need to show you to the rest of them.” He grasps Kuroko’s hand and pulls him along.

Kuroko can’t even put up a fight as Ryouta drags him away like a stuffed toy.

“Oh yeah!” The golden-haired neanderthal for a human turns to Kuroko, “What was your name again?”

 

* * *

 

 

The room spares a moment of silence to its occupants, housing absolute giants—according to Kuroko, at least—who are too interested in their own business to greet the newcomers, save for a drawled out, “Oh, Kise-chin brought the toy.”

The first one he catches sight of is a green-haired man surrounded by bulky manuscripts. He’s sitting at a table in the far corner, holding a book large enough to close on his entire face. The wrinkle on his forehead does little not to suggest that he isn’t too fond of company not bound by leather backs and parchment. But Kuroko thinks that neither are the other two, who are each keeping to their own table.

On the other hand, this Kise person still won’t release his grip on his shoulders. He wiggles against the taller man, but to no avail as Kise bumps him forward. “Here’s the thing, he’s Akashicchi’s consort!” he exclaims, making Kuroko wince.  _Consort_. That word tastes bitter on his tongue for more reasons than one.

Though it does get everyone to turn like sunflowers in Kise’s direction. The brat who just called him a ‘toy’ dusts the peanut shells off his pants, coming to stand right in front of Kuroko.

“Oh?” He leans down, still dwarfing Kuroko, feeble sapling standing under the shade of an oak  tree with purple leaves. “He’s so tiny, I could crush him.”

As if to do just that, he puts his hand on top of a blue head, which the owner immediately swats away. “Please do not touch me,” Kuroko requests, deciding he’s had enough of humans touching him today.

“Eh? But you feel so fluffy,” the giant man replies. Every word he utters drips lazily onto the next. Stringing them into a sentence with the knots drenched in viscous languor. Kuroko can only wonder if this man always speaks like he just woke up from year-long hibernation.

A deeper voice cuts in, “If you want to harass him then do it outside, Murasakibara. Let me read in peace.”

Said man clicks his tongue, “Mido-chin, you’re always reading.” He yawns and looks around the room, before brushing past Kuroko. “I’m hungry. Bye bye.”

“Eh? Wait, we still need to interrogate him!” Kise calls after a shadow, before crying out, “Ow! Aominecchi!”

“Shut it, Kise. You’re too noisy,” the tanned person barks. He’s holding a bundle of sticks, all of the same length, including the one that hit Kise right in the face.

“Ow…” Kuroko glances at the source of the low whine, who’s gingerly rubbing his nose. He wastes no time trying to lunge at his abuser, only to miss as the taller man strafes right. It reminds Kuroko of the jesters at his court—one of the more jovial memories of his past life that didn’t erode under the barrage of time—and he can’t help the snort that escapes his mouth.

The dark-skinned man catches the small noise, and a grin spreads mischief over his face. “So Gloomy-kid knows how to laugh, eh?”

Kuroko clears his throat, “Do not call me that.” This time he speaks with authority, but his voice is still absorbed by the papyrus scrolls flowing down the stone shelf that stretches along the wall. The scrolls spill on the floor in murky white sheets, much like the ones he used to lay in. 

Another memory hits him. Only this time, revulsion balls up and rolls along the flesh of his back, reminding him that his sheets would be stained with blood, not India ink.

“Then,” a deep voice snaps Kuroko out of his reverie. He feels the waves of nausea ebb away with the baritone sound, “What should I call you?”

Kuroko blinks at the one flashing his pearly whites at him. His lips twitch in response and it comes out naturally, “Kuroko Tetsuya.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m not a child,” Kuroko insists an hour later, after Aomine and Murasakibara—who returned with a renewed supply of peanuts—are done taking jabs at his height. He is caught between wanting to burn this place to a crisp and wanting to summon a monstrous deluge to flood the castle. But his wishes crumble into sand as a cruel reminder washes over them, carrying Akashi’s words from earlier. They ring in his head like a siren, and Kuroko cannot block the noise even if he tears holes in his ear drums.

This is his first time entering into contract, but he can tell his powers are now limited by it. He cannot gauge how much he’s lost, but his body already feels different. Like it’s reorganizing itself. Stairs to his organs shifting, doors to the mind closing and different ones opening, filling his body with new bridges to memories he thought he burned before time was even born.

“Right,” Aomine replies with no indication of listening to what Kuroko is saying.

Kuroko eyes the sticks Aomine is quite clearly struggling with. He keeps pressing down onto them on his thigh, as if he’s trying to bend the sap out of them. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, some of the townies told me this old legend.” He grunts, not ceasing his endeavors to mutilate the tied up sticks. “About a father who tells his sons to break a bundle like this. Long story short, the only way to do it is to break them separately. But I’m sure that’s just because the old man’s sons were too weak.”

Kuroko stands there, astounded. He remembers that fable very well, but it seems that some details are being dropped over time. For the bundle in question contained no greater than six sticks, and he sees in Aomine’s lap more than twenty. Of course no human can manage such a feat when half its requisites get scratched out.

He sighs.

“Aomine-san, may I try?” Kuroko asks.

The other only manages to blink at him first, before handing the bundle over. “Careful, they’re heavy.”

Hardly, Kuroko thinks. He may as well test out what little of his powers are left.

“First of all, you’ve been carrying too many sticks.” Kuroko grips the ends of the bundle in each hand, and instead of bending them, he simply claps his hands together. A hollow boom resonates in the marble of the walls. Kuroko realizes that he’s accidentally put himself in the spotlight. 

 All that trickles out of his hands is fine dust, glittering ashes of the pile of wood he has just crushed.

“Wow,” Aomine breathes out, “How did you do that?” he asks, eager as a puppy.

The others are comparably more horrified than awed. “W-what on earth was that?” Kise is the one to ask this time. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost, thought that wouldn’t be far from the truth. Even Murasakibara is staring at him, making Kuroko feel like some poor rodent caught under the predatory gaze of a hawk.

But Midorima’s question is what breaches the border to a realm these humans have barely grazed in their lifetime. It uncovers a promise to crush all wealth of human knowledge into dust, into the powder dyeing Kuroko’s hands wooden brown. “What are you?”

Kuroko tilts his head to the side, a blue-haired doll with a broken neck. “A god you miserable humans have forgotten.”

 

* * *

 

 

The summer heat is thick, it’s oppressive. It swirls around each figure in the room, dancing on exposed skin until it bleeds salt, and it suffocates them through cloth. It makes a furnace out of the throne room, encased in yellow and grey metal, as the sun hangs at its highest in the sky, glowering at the pitiful life forms that yet worship it. Even curtaining the light isn’t enough, as the window stretches along the entire wall. There are always bright tendrils creeping through spaces in silk, spilling on the floor to scorch the feet of whomever treads on it.

They normally don’t convene in the afternoon for this very reason. Yet Ryouta, in hair-ripping panic, hollers for a meeting in the sweltering midday heat. Seijuurou is, as an unfortunate result, certainly not pleased. Nor are any of the others who have to suffer through the blond’s meltdown. Mostly consisting of Ryouta spluttering over Kuroko’s show of ability, which Seijuurou regrets having missed out on.

The Dahaka is definitely something that needs to be studied. He can’t be too sure that the word even exists in their language, or in their history. Running some inquiries nets fruitless results. Any traces to Kuroko Tetsuya’s origin are shrouded in complete darkness, which only grows bigger with every dead end lead he finds. He still cannot determine if all this isn’t just a form of trickery, a window of illusion that shows wing-tipped cats flying over red seas when you look through it.

Though there is something otherworldly about this man. It shows when he walks into the room wrapped in invisible glacial vines. It is not something you can notice unless you are standing right next to him. Close enough to see his breath freeze the air around him, to feel the pinpricks of frost stab into your pores.

It only makes Seijuurou feel hotter, the heat in the room seeking whatever Kuroko touches, with his hands, with his feet, with his breath. It is said that the most dangerous heat is the kind that feeds on the cold, and it makes Seijuurou breathe just a little bit faster. Even the mere memory of it is enough to drag fiery kisses out of the sun’s rotund belly and lay them across his skin, scorching every inch until it’s flushed.

_Yes_ , Seijuurou thinks,  _it is the way he feels like ice and death_.

“Akashicchi!” calls out Ryouta, who’s been ignored for longer than he can excuse. “Did you know about this?”

“Of course he did, he’s not stupid,” Shintarou cuts in. “Akashi, I know this foolish consort business is another nefarious scheme of yours—”

“Ehhh? They’re not getting married then?”

“—But I still cannot comprehend the logic behind keeping him around.” Kuroko looks at the green-haired guard. “If he’s anything like the last one we fought on the way here, he may very well try to kill us.”

Kuroko’s eyes widen at that. “You faced Spitiyura?”

“Huh?” Daiki asks this time. “You know him?”

“That’s what he called himself, yes.” Shintarou adds, crossing his arms. Kuroko has to admit that he liked him much better when he treated the azure-crowned god like dust on old manuscripts. Not like some gilded tome containing the lost arts of sorcery.

His eyes flit towards Seijuurou for a second, but that’s all the hesitation he shows. He has never been one to outright lie, not even to humans. “I was the one who put him at the gates of Rakuzan, as guardian,” he reveals.

“Wait, he was  _your_  subordinate?” Ryouta erupts in wonder, eyes wide, glittering pools of honey. It makes Kuroko take a step back, because Ryouta looks like he is about to let loose another annoying barrage of questions.

“He was one of my creations,” Kuroko starts before the blond can get his chance. “How did you manage to defeat him?” Kuroko asks with honest surprise coating his words. Spitiyura was a giant through and through; towering over the city walls, the demon walked on tremors that split the earth with every step.

Even if Seijuurou and his men may be warriors born with adamantine bones, humans shouldn’t even be able to touch the gargantuan beast, let alone slay it.

“We come from the far east,” Seijuurou says. “Where our weapons are forged from Atar’s fire. It is said that his fire can melt the skin of even the strongest of demons.”

Atar. Kuroko didn’t think he would hear that name again. Then it’s true. Lord Ahura Mazda and his  _Amesha Spenta_ , his legion, have indeed settled in the east. A distinct image suddenly pops up in his head, and he shivers at the thought of  _him_  having followed them there. Though Kuroko doesn’t want  _him_  here either, not when most of his own powers are locked.

The twitch doesn’t escape Seijuurou’s ever-observant eye, and he asks, “You know of Atar?”

Kuroko nods.

Seijuurou narrows his gaze, cogs already turning in his mind. “And the rest of our gods? The Wise Lord and his seven servants?” he recites the titles like a check list.

“Akashi-san, they are my brothers and sisters.” Kuroko considers if this is where he should stop divulging information to these humans, bearing in mind the strong likelihood that he may have to end up killing off the men when he takes their leader’s life. Their bodies, their musculature shaped by countless battles, and more than that they look  _capable_ , and seem to carry an arsenal of skills Kuroko has yet to see. It is not by some mere draw of straws that they choose to stay by Seijuurou. Loyalty like theirs tends to turn men blind and dangerous. Into ravenous beasts out to avenge their master’s dishonor.

It would definitely be a pity to see them perish.

Kuroko immediately shakes off the thought, as insignificant as the buzzing of some vile insect flying around his ears. Showing humans pity has never done a god much good, even if these ones were Ahura Mazda’s followers.

Seijuurou remains silent, trying to deconstruct Kuroko’s words in his head. Trying to pare out any hidden message, any sign of a lie, because he is definitely sure that no one from his home country knows of the name Dahaka.

Atsushi is the one to break the reigning silence. “Eh, so he’s family? Then I’ll call you Kuro-chin,” he declares, munching away at peanuts again. For Atsushi, that’s that, though the throne room is still brimming with tension.

“Family?” echoes a confused Kuroko.

“Legends say our people descend from the feet of The Wise One himself,” Seijuurou supplies.

Within the walls of his mind, Kuroko is quick to disagree. He may have awoken on the earth of Ahura Mazda’s hands, drank on the words of godhood, and dressed in the gifts of his maker, but he is no besotted fool. He knows his place very well. It is lodged deep in the melting core of this world, where he floats down a never-ending river of hellfire. 

Yet even that feels like a dip in freshwater to the arctic plateau of his body. He no longer holds any memory of warmth, not from the embrace of a human to tell apart one from fire. While the others feast inside the heavens above, bathing in a temple whose walls depict the blind devotion of humans. Walls that grow with every prayer, and paint each praise onto their bricks like ivory medals carved from spines of animal sacrifices.

The gods humans worship walk on crystal carpets that glitter in the night sky, and Kuroko is the only one who walks on the other path, on a dirt road marred by faces of the dead and the dying. The only leaves that crunch under his feet are charred black, and the only sound the air makes is a dying gasp when another life is lost. 

He is no fool. He knows that his divinity is only a curse he carries like an albatross around his neck.

The Dahaka isn’t family. He is the child they have orphaned to hell.

Sometimes Kuroko blithely considers decimating all forms of human life, just to see if their precious temple shatters from the keening screams of their worshipers.

* * *

The count begins when the skies are aflame. When Seijuurou wakes to a sun shyly peeking up from the horizon. He is tempted to dismiss yesterday as a dream, but then he sees the body of a snake glint black around his wrist, so he can only curse Kuroko in his head.

And for all his animosity towards that man, he still wants to keep him on a tight leash. Which is why their meeting yesterday ended with his word as their leader, their king.

* * *

_“But that still doesn’t explain why he's here.” Shintarou, with his infamous cold logic, strikes again. Kuroko wishes, for the third time, that the man would stop talking about him like he’s livestock._

_“We struck an agreement,” Seijuurou answers before Kuroko can wreak havoc by beckoning another storm with a blunt reply. “For greater yield from our harvesting.” When there comes no sound of denial from Kuroko, he decides to build on his lie. “The people here are still struggling with the horrible effects of famine. It will take quite some time before we can turn this land green again. It is only imperative we consider what the common citizen eats, lest we forget they are our brothers and sisters in our mindless indulgence on banquets.”_

_Shintarou frowns. “On what terms?”_

_A secretive smile. “That I have hundred days to solve a riddle. Should I fail to do so, he will rescind his promise.”_

_Ryouta perks up at that. “A riddle? Is it like anything Spitiyura gave us?”_

_“The riddle is for the king to solve.” Kuroko adds after finally catching on to the lie. “Though he must never forget that when Time comes knocking, there is only one answer.” His austere expression causes Seijuurou to chuckle lightly._

_“Indeed, although it might not be the one you're expecting, Kuroko.” The challenge flashes clear in the king’s eyes._

_The blue-haired man is beginning to understand just why Seijuurou has been chosen by the people._

* * *

The full moon lies in wait today, the town abuzz with preparations to celebrate its arrival. Loosely hugging the castle, the kingdom of Rakuzan greets Seijuurou with glittering minarets and little houses washed with streaks of vermilion running all the way around the city. 

People claim that this fragrant powder ground from myrrh and turmeric can light up from the heat of a torch. Though Seijuurou cannot imagine what that means, he’s still quite eager to find out.

Seijuurou is looking forward to many things tonight, which honestly comes as quite a surprise to him. Back in his homeland, he never partook in frivolities that used up his time without any merits in return. And he would be lying if he says that he doesn’t see the banquet as an obligation to fulfill with the title he now carries.

And it would have remained a formality if it weren’t for the smiles painted on their faces, fingers tipped with a myriad of colors, carrying flowers he has never seen, fruits he has never tasted, and when he hears the castle walls sing with ebullient trills of laughter and lively chatter, he can’t help a smile of his own from unfurling.

It dies immediately when he sees a black serpent twirl around his wrist, only this time it slithers upwards some, before dissolving back into his skin. It serves as a daily reminder that his days are numbered. They have already been reduced by a week’s worth today, and although the snake’s fleeting emergence appears less ominous than the chime of an executioner’s summons back at Teikou, Seijuurou isn’t quite convinced that it won’t try to sink its fangs once it reaches where the flesh hums with the beat of a heart.

Kuroko, on the other hand, is dealing with a volley of problems of his own. News bearing the words ‘consort’ and 'marriage’ has now reached every breathing nook and cranny of the city. The palatial grounds became a veritable bedlam of servants chasing after the elusive 'bride’, who could only play so much on his lack of presence. Eventually he was caught, and though the chaos has subsided now, Kuroko is definitely not enjoying being a constant pillar of attention.

Seijuurou can already tell that Kuroko, his world wrapped in a resentful fog of his godly chutzpah, doesn’t particularly seek, nor adore the company of humans. But the god would perhaps appreciate him even less for throwing him into the dungeons instead. So he lets Kuroko roam free, because it is much easier to keep an eye on him this way. He can only imagine how easy it would be for a god to shatter iron bars and make his escape. Go into hiding until the fated day arrives.

Everything about the Dahaka is still shrouded in mystery. Like those magical treasure coves old legends claim to be hidden under giant whirling twins of quicksand. Desultory attempts at digging for gold might just cause Seijuurou to sink with nary a chance at uncovering the chest of secrets that Kuroko holds.

But as Seijuurou heads towards the armory, the daunting image of abyssal quicksand evaporates into a cozy view of a golden dog showering its love onto a cat that’s sharpening its claws in irritation.

“Please go away,” Kuroko hisses, and Seijuurou half expects actual animal scratches to appear all over his guard’s face.

“But Kurokocchi!” whines Ryouta.

What really gets to Seijuurou is how quickly his men have warmed up to a purveyor of death. Looking at the ongoing cat-dog banter makes him consider a host of possibilities, however. That if circumstances were different, perhaps Seijuurou too would come to appreciate Kuroko’s presence.

Just like Daiki, who's mulishly been trying to get the shorter man to be his sparring partner. Or Atsushi, who is a lackadaisical fellow with no nuances of prejudice in the first place. Especially not when, in his words, Kuroko looks like the stuff made of sugar and cotton, and feels just as soft. No mumbles of protest escape even Shintarou anymore, who once used to pale at the thought of being in the same room as a potential death trap.

But this pitiful camaraderie is a bevy of messy stitches decorating the veil of lies Seijuurou has sewn by hand. While the truth emblazons onto it a rickety bridge between him and Kuroko.

And when Kuroko finally notices his presence and throws a scowl in Seijuurou’s direction, the lies automatically come loose without catching anyone’s eye. These loose threads twist into tattered ropes, barely holding the bridge together. Not that it is a matter of concern when neither of them intends to cross the bridge in the first place.

Save for the unfortunate fact that he has named Kuroko his bride. Precautionary measure or not, he must now learn to tolerate the presence of the very creature that’s after his soul.

And when Kuroko doesn’t back down from his subtle glaring even as Ryouta continues to complain into his ear, Seijuurou predicts with a tired sigh that this will be easier said than done.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Preview for next chap]
> 
>  
>
>> All of Seijuurou’s words die in his throat when Kuroko’s lips twitch ever so lightly. He swears it to be a trick of the lights glittering on the earth, but he thinks he sees a smile flicker on Kuroko’s face for the smallest of moments.
>> 
>> And when he lies in his bed that night, overlooking the diamonds dotting his kingdom, all he dreams about are the stars he saw tonight in the sky behind Kuroko’s eyes.
> 
> Or check my tumblr for all the spoilers! (｀థ ౪ థ´) 
> 
> Until next time!


	2. Catacombs

Fuzzy orange bubbles float down minaret-studded streets as people make rounds in the city with lit torches. A giant table sits around the golden king astride a solemn horse, lights from tall oil lanterns dancing on a metallic face. While the real king sits in a humble corner, flanked by his royal guard. A specter draped in frost bedizens the seat on his right, sparkling gems dotting the body like freckles on a snow lily.

The palace servants got their grubby hands on Kuroko just before, snatching him away to what he first thought was some torture chamber. But as they rolled his body in white sheets, sewed exotic jewels from head to toe, he still swears the whole ordeal was a test of his patience. He sat playing doll for the entirety of what consisted of being poked with needles in places a god would smite them for daring to go near.

It’s a pity that the only life he can take is Seijuurou’s, that too only after another test of time. To a being who has ruled for a century and slept for another ten, a hundred days—even lower than that now—make up for less than a speck of dust in the universe of his mind. Yet the prickling urge to flood civilization into muck doesn’t fall prey to any reticent perception of time. Instead, it stays with Kuroko even when his eyes fall into the dark hedges of eternal slumber.

Even as the colors of the world dance in vicissitudes of sunsets and seasons, Kuroko cares not for lower beings who paint their own hedonism onto desert sands with things like  _houses_  or _farms_  or  _castles_.

Or the tacky jewellery he adorns like a stone idol of some god they worship.

Kuroko is more than some piece of molded rock, but he is not meant for worship. Not him.

But the title of  _consort_ offers him just that, as he sits there silent as a corpse. Though perhaps it is his regretfully gaudy attire that draws every probing gaze to his person. It makes him shiver, makes him want to curl into his insides and pull out the ugly smog that billows around his rotting organs. Lay it out on the round table for all to see—to see what kind of monster these humans are throwing their amorous glances at.

When Seijuurou shifts closer to him, it makes him hate humanity just a little more. He nails the king with a steel gaze, only for him to return it with a glib tilt of his head and curved lips.

 _Oh_ , Kuroko realizes.  _Smile_.

His impassive stare pans across the stuffy table, frozen corners of his mouth inching upwards with the effort of naked feet dragging through mountains of snow. It’s not a shoddy attempt, that much he can tell by the way every face lights up like the lanterns standing behind them. But it sinks back into the snowy trenches of his pallor the next instant, as he burrows into his chair, trying to make himself look smaller until he hopefully disappears.

Kuroko’s plate remains untouched for the most part. He’s too busy giving taciturn responses to the loop of chatters the court officials are trying to drag him into. Seijuurou is satisfied as long as Kuroko doesn’t outright ignore their enthusiasm, impressed even, that he is not treating the citizens with his regular standoffish attitude. Because he definitely looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Soon enough, all eyes on Kuroko shift when the wind splits with the blow of a horn, alerting everyone to the main event that’s about to start. The natives have near forgotten what marks the end of the lunar festival, under the rule of a king who only decreed celebration in his name, his glory. But now they sit there with bated breaths, with child-like anticipation dancing behind the flames in their eyes.

A group of people appear from the corner of a street with dead torches in their hands. They go around the table, putting out each lantern until they reach the king’s side of the table.

“Praise be to the moon, and to our new emperor!” someone cries, and the last of the flames go out together.

And the city lights up instead.

The crowd erupts into cheers as the dark walls surrounding town square glitter like diamonds. Ribbons of pearls seem to cascade down taller buildings, exploding into stars on the sky spilling on the walls of tiny houses. Childish scrawls of birds and animals sparkle happily on the tiles at the bottom, and it feels like the entire kingdom is perched on the edge of night skies, drowning in splatters of constellations that stretch all the way to the moon.

Kuroko’s feet are on sand that is slipping past the horizon, to the ends of the earth, sprinkling into the mouth of the universe. Kuroko thinks for a moment that, in return, the universe has etched its glittering tears into the walls of this city.

For a moment he thinks that not even the gods above can give birth to a sky that can fall to the earths.

“It’s powder that glows with heat. We call it the Star of Myrrh.” A man standing behind Kuroko explains with pride.

“An apt name,” Seijuurou remarks with a smile.

But it turns out that tonight’s surprise lies on Kuroko’s lips instead. “It’s beautiful,” the god says, breathless.

His praise pulls in a few curious stares, finally seeing the silent spectator opening his mouth on his own accord. The man behind Kuroko bows, “We’re honored that you like it, your majesty.”

“I have never witnessed such an event before,” an awestruck Kuroko continues. “What great minds you must possess to create something so novel, to birth cosmos out of plants.” Kuroko’s face remains relaxed in ice but his words burst forth in a deluge of pure wonder, and Seijuurou can’t think of anything except how there are no angry wrinkles marring his forehead anymore. That he looks more lifelike than a god of death. That Seijuurou sees something close to human glimmer underneath all the flakes of apathy rusting Kuroko’s face.

All of Seijuurou’s words die in his throat when Kuroko’s lips twitch ever so lightly. He swears it to be a trick of the lights glittering on the earth, but he thinks he sees a smile flicker on Kuroko’s face for the smallest of moments.

And when he lies in his bed that night, overlooking the diamonds dotting his kingdom, all he dreams about are the stars he saw tonight in the sky behind Kuroko’s eyes.

* * *

_“I didn’t expect a god to be so amazed by it,” Seijuurou’s snark rears its head in the dark corridors of the palace, while the rest of the kingdom still indulges in hearty cheers outside._

_Kuroko takes no offense to it. “I suppose I was wrong,” he mutters, scratching his chin. “Humans can be capable of remarkable feats some times.”_

 

* * *

 

The air hangs low, heavy in this sweltering heat. The news brings with it a dreadful silence that makes Kuroko regret ever letting the king talk him into presiding over what’s turning out to be nothing more than an abortive discussion.

“You need not feel obligated to speak,” Seijuurou had informed him before leading him into the throne room. What was meant to be a word of reassurance gnawed at Kuroko as an insult to his intelligence.

“Then what is the purpose of my attendance?” Kuroko had asked then with a small frown.

“Formalities, Kuroko,” he reminded, “As my future consort.” It was difficult to ignore how Kuroko appeared visibly upset at his words. Curious as Seijuurou had been, he kept silent and made for his throne.

Kuroko’s mind, however, was driven off to a tangent Seijuurou had never imagined to take into account.

And now, when the sundial’s shadow has already started to slant, his thoughts are still revolving around the path of that unknown tangent. It leads to a memory shrouded in boreal thickets, never seeing the light of day. A thousand-year slumber has flayed most of his memories into immaterial frames, greedily swallowed up by a cerebral grotto hidden by thorn-laden vines and putrefying moss. And they keep him at bay. Keep him from reaching into what he has no desire to revisit for the rest of his life.

Yet being around Seijuurou for too long drags out vulgar sensations from the groves of his mind. Seijuurou’s words echo in his thoughts from the mouth of another man.

 _“You need not speak to others.”_  Kuroko remembers thin fingers trailing over the line of his jaw. Then another whisper dripping honey into his ears,  _“You need only serve me from now on."_ What humans might call an eternity has already passed in Kuroko’s time, yet he still cannot help the shiver running down his spine.

And though that man’s words weren’t quite the same, Kuroko thinks the underlying meaning has not been lost with only a rehashed phrasing. He cannot tell if it is because Seijuurou is the king, or if it’s because of how he always appears to be scheming something inside his head.

Or perhaps it is because Seijuurou is indubitably human.

"We might be foreseeing a deficit in our irrigation sources in the near future,” is the news that comes accompanying a grim face. The entire line of men sitting at either side of the throne room mirrors the informer's expression and falls silent. Until one of the advisers asks about the reserves, forcing another discussion to break out amongst them.

So they are already running out of water for their crops. Seijuurou isn’t surprised. Rain is more of a once in a blue moon blessing in these lands, and their wells are already drying up. At this rate they might have to make a trip to the nearby highlands soon.

“If I may.” Seijuurou isn’t the only one staring in astonishment when a voice emerges out of nowhere, drawing every head in his direction as though the court officials have only just noticed him. He’s the last person Seijuurou would expect to see intervene. “There is a spring not far from here. It should not take more than half a day to reach it.”

Kuroko places a finger at the right-hand corner of the map that’s spread out on the floor. It’s small, only showing a blueprint of the city drawn in with a brick shard. The people, who have always kept close to castle walls, stay speechless, trying to register his words. The silence persists long enough that Kuroko’s half expecting them to shoot down his suggestion.

Seijuurou glances at the place Kuroko’s pointing at, a sudden name popping into his mind. “Ah, there’s a village right next to the spring, if I recall correctly.”

Kuroko remembers a time when it used to be only his people traversing desert sands like kings in their own right. Things have changed quite a lot during his absence, and there’s a spark of curiosity that he immediately extinguishes.

“We can use the southern route to reach the spring then,” Kuroko adds. A couple of officers now seem to regain the ability to talk, as they voice their agreement to Kuroko’s plan.

“That won’t be necessary,” replies Seijuurou immediately, as if he's been expecting Kuroko to opt for that route. That seems like something this god would do: minimize human interaction as much as possible.

“Are you suggesting we go through the village?” asks Kuroko, eyes narrowed.

“Not quite. I propose we exchange… resources.” Seijuurou’s mind is already going through all possible outcomes for this decision, and he picks out the most lucrative one.

“Resources?” one man questions.

Seijuurou nods. "A simple trade. But we shall deliberate over this with the villagers first before we make our decision.“

"Your majesty, if I may be so bold." Seijuurou nods in the speaker’s direction, where a tall, lanky man stands with his headpiece crunched in his hands. "I believe Lord Kuroko’s method would be much safer. We do not know the nature of these settlers, when they haven’t even shown their faces in our court.”

“That may be so,” Seijuurou leans forward, making sure they’re all listening to his every word. “Incidentally, if you feel so threatened by them, do you truly have reason to assume sneaking around would be considered an act of goodwill by them?”

The adviser looks down in thought. That is all the response the king needs to accept this as his victory.

Now to iron out their worries.

“In any case,” Seijuurou leans back into his throne, adopts a relaxed posture to reassure his council. “It is unnecessary for us to take great risks when they have yet shown no hostility towards us. In fact, I am confident they will welcome us with open arms.”

It’s interesting what the right choice of words can do to a group that’s on the fence. The council immediately jumps on the king’s side of things, some with words of, “We need not fear when we have our great king to guide us!” while others cheer in likewise pride.

Kuroko hears praise upon praise being laid on the king, and they echo a past where Kuroko himself was once recipient of similar words. Several things have changed since his departure to the realm of dark dreams, but to see people kissing the ground their king walks upon—it uproots every last seed of hope. Crushes them in a manner Kuroko predicts will lead to the death of a civilization built on hopelessly blind worship. Then again, he is no king.

Unlike him, Seijuurou shares not an ounce of naiveté that ultimately saw Kuroko’s downfall. So perhaps the redhead does possess some qualities that may warrant him the throne.

Not that it matters. Kuroko lets out a sigh. There will be no throne in Seijuurou’s future.

By the time Seijuurou adjourns the discussion and the council is dismissed, he and Kuroko are the only ones left in the throne room.

And just like he has expected, Kuroko wastes no time with his rebuttal. “I fear you’re being reckless.”

Seijuurou offers him a pleased look. “I suppose I should feel honored, having you fear for my well-being.”

“Hardly.”

But Kuroko is ignored, much to his chagrin. "I would rather have you put your trust in me. You will be accompanying me, yes?“ Kuroko doesn’t reply, unsure of letting the king roam outside the city. Retaliation may come from even the smallest of rats if you poke it hard enough, so he’s learnt.

Seijuurou accepts the silence as affirmative. "Then you may see for yourself tomorrow if it was indeed a reckless move, as you claim it is." 

Kuroko’s faint scowl doesn’t lift even with that. "As the king, could you afford to expose yourself to potential harm when you need only send a messenger?”

“Kuroko, it is my duty as king to oversee matters that may prove to be nigh essential for us in the future. I must simply trust that you keep your end of the bargain.”

Kuroko is a little more than amazed at that. “You would put your trust in me?”

“I suppose." Seijuurou smiles in a rose-tinted arc, and it hits Kuroko. It has been over a month now. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed before, but Seijuurou no longer holds that same caustic mien—like when they first met—around him anymore.

It troubles Kuroko more than he would have thought, and it doesn’t go away even when the sun chars the sky black with its death, and he’s lying in his bed looking up at droopy shadows. Even as he closes his eyes and teeters on the brink of sleep, the last of his conscious thoughts burn the after image of Seijuurou’s face into the back of his eyelids. 

Right before Kuroko’s world fades away into dreams, there is one last cloud of memories he hangs onto. He remembers what doesn’t exist.

It’s been a while since someone has smiled at him like that.

* * *

 

It’s getting close to a month now. Or that’s what the snake on his arm tells him as it laps at his elbow before dissolving, always as quickly as it appears.

Seijuurou has hit nothing but walls in whatever route he tries to take to delve into the Dahaka’s origins. It frustrates him to no end, to the point where he resorts to seeking guidance from another.

"I tried looking up the name, as you said, but nothing about the Dahaka is mentioned in our legends.” Shintarou informs with a sigh. 

Seijuurou had asked him to go through the manuscripts he’d brought along from Teikou. If Kuroko is truly related to the deities ruling Seijuurou's homeland then it would be impossible not to have any mentions of a death god of all things in their scriptures. 

“There  _is_  something odd that appears in the  _Avesta_.” Their most sacred book that dictates ascetic standards to live by, said to have been written by angels themselves. “A beast with no name.”

“In the  _Avesta_?” Seijuurou frowns. It’s a guide meant for worshipers, there is no reason for it to allow more than a brief mention of other beings.

Shintarou nods, skimming through faded parchment. “There wasn’t much I could find in this. All it says is that it breathes fire.”

Seijuurou’s mouth snaps shut at that.

* * *

 

Kuroko has never personally invited court jesters into his room before, but his guest almost makes him consider it. If the jokes they crack are as ridiculous as the question this man has asked him, then he’s sure to have the time of his life.

Seeing Kuroko’s reaction, Seijuurou’s thoughts roam in the same direction. Only he feels ridiculed, not finding any inkling of a joke in his words. Unlike the azure-eyed god, who’s coughing into his hand to cover up the tell-tale signs of a laugh pulling at his cheeks.

“Do not mistake me for Atar, dear king, there is no way for me to breathe fire.” Kuroko finally responds with just the bare minimum restraint to keep a smile from breaking out on his face.

Seijuurou finds that he prefers Kuroko better like this, without the permanent scowl. Or the blunt remarks stashed in his artillery of words, constantly restocked with acerbic jabs as though it is his life duty to make Seijuurou as miserable as possible. The fact that he’s housing a death god is unpleasant enough; he’d rather not pique any latent sadistic tendencies in Kuroko.

Today must be a rare occasion, because Kuroko hardly looks like one. He’s not wrapped in dark attire for once, opting for the complete opposite with a simple white tunic that drapes over his whole body. Just a change of wardrobe is enough to make him appear something much different from ghastly.

He can’t put his finger on it, but, “You look different.” It sounds as offhanded as anything he’s ever told Kuroko, yet he meets wide blue eyes blinking owlishly at him as though he has just grown another head.

Yes, this is indeed better than having Kuroko glare daggers at him.

“I approve,” he tells a stunned Kuroko.

Perhaps Seijuurou should be offended after waiting too long for a reply. Yet all that stays in mind is how the dying embers of dusk burn vivid patterns onto Kuroko’s robes. The sun peeks through clay-patterned windows as it descends onto the horizon, spilling incandescent skies in the room until there’s liquid gold cascading down palace walls.

Some of it splashes onto Kuroko’s hair, making it glimmer rustic colors, and Seijuurou thinks he might see amber jewels fall out if he runs his hand through those sky-kissed tresses.

He is quite content just watching Kuroko, though said person doesn’t reciprocate the sentiment.

“Akashi-san, it’s rude to stare.” His chiding falls on deaf ears since Seijuurou appears lost in thought. Even then he never takes his eyes off Kuroko, whose skin grows a slight flush as the sun gets closer to the sea. What’s left of daylight climbs on Kuroko’s neck, his face, and it chases the sky of his eyes—in the last blinks of twilight Seijuurou sees a fresco of golden rosebeds and cerulean streaks slowly come to life.

While he still doubts Kuroko’s origins, in this moment he truly does look like a god. One crafted by the hands of Mother Nature herself, and he’s a walking, talking cynosure of divine artwork staring back at him with curious eyes.

To his credit, Kuroko doesn’t shy away from the probing gaze, meeting it with defiant eyes that light up like blue flames in the sun. Seijuurou realizes that this god breathes a different kind of fire entirely.

That is just as fine.

Seijuurou will always have a penchant for art.

 

* * *

 

 

Desert sands roll about in golden waves over the warm breeze trailing after Seijuurou and his men. Not a moment’s relief comes for them as the sun’s glare chases away any lingering clouds. Seijuurou is both surprised and glad that the village was closer than they’d predicted. For everyone’s sake, he’d rather finish things as quickly as possible.

No guard stands at the entrance of the village to make the outsiders wait in the sweltering heat. The reason for it becomes clear the moment a confused messenger goes in to survey the area.

“Y-your majesty…” is all he stammers out, failing to warn Seijuurou about just what awaits everyone, who are already getting off their rides.

More skeleton than skin, with several bodies littering barren land like dead flies, a living graveyard is what greets them as they enter the unknown village. Everyone halts in their steps, never having expected to meet a desolate landscape of emaciated people lining the way for them.

Except Kuroko, who’s the first to step forward. “They are still breathing. Carry these people inside one of the huts. None of the ones over here are occupied.” He points to a group of open-door huts next to him, looking more like flimsy lumps of straw than actual houses. Kuroko’s right, however. They’re still better than nothing.

“You heard him,” the king’s voice snaps everyone out of their horror-stricken shock, immediately making them rush over to help the villagers.

Seijuurou treks on, signaling one of the men to follow. Kuroko stays behind to help, giving instructions like a veteran commander in duty. What Seijuurou didn’t expect was for it to come so naturally to someone like Kuroko, who only prefers silence as his company, a statue in a group of warriors.

A brief glance behind him shows Kuroko leading everyone with a composed voice. It’s bizarre, it’s out of place. 

It’s almost as if it’s experience talking.

What Seijuurou assumes to be the village chief’s dwelling lies all the way at the back, instead of in the middle. It’s quite a common occurrence, but only in places where the Head hides behind his villagers, having them serve as his meat shields during a raid. Instantly, an image of a gluttonous man draped in ostentatious jewellery flits across Seijuurou's brain.

With pursed lips, he pushes past sequin drapes. A young girl meets his eyes instead. She is kneeling over a cot, a pail of water in her hands, face flushed with a bead of sweat making its way down a weary jaw.

“Who are you!” she yells in panic, and the cot groans.

“We come from the kingdom across the west.” Seijuurou explains, gaze shifting to the body lying next to the girl. It needs no explanation that it is her father, and seemingly the chief of the village.

Though it appears that the young girl is the only figure of authority he can speak with right now. "Why are you here?“ she snaps, her breath coming out in pants. She looks way beyond her age, with straws for arms and a broken twig for a body that might just snap in two with the burden she’s been saddled with.

He looks back and forth from father to daughter, both barely holding on to their lives. He steps away from the guard accompanying him, who immediately holds out a basket, tugging at the cover to reveal its contents.

The girl’s eyes widen. Fruit. Ripe and freshly picked only hours ago.

"We come in your aid,” answers Seijuurou.

 

As Seijuurou has predicted, a village that sits on barren land dries up too soon. When summer comes with a failed harvest, it’s a sign for the settlers to move on to new, fertile lands. Only this village’s former chief seems to have taken to that idea, or that’s what Seijuurou presumes before asking the girl later on, who reveals herself to be the daughter of the newly appointed chief.

“That man took off with everything!” she cries through desperate tears. "Looted our wares and took our cattle!“

Escaping with his hide when things get rough, that’s another common occurrence. Seijuurou holds back a sigh.

"We cannot last without our water. There is nowhere for us to go,” she croaks as though every word is a thorn scraping through her lungs.

Seijuurou decides he’s made her talk for far too long. “We will discuss this later. For now, let us be at your assistance." 

* * *

The sky enshrouds the world in drowsy flames by the time Seijuurou rides out of the village, with an agreement on his proposal as expected. Some of his men stay behind with the food supplies originally meant for barter; helping the villagers now takes priority. It is only fair that Seijuurou allow it.

"You seem concerned,” he tells Kuroko, who keeps throwing brief glances over his shoulder.

“As much as man cares for fodder, I suppose.” Kuroko returns with his usual frost-laden indifference.

After spending over a month with him, Seijuurou finds that hard to believe. “You may stay back if you so wish.”

The god finally turns to him, looking straight into his eyes as he says, “No, I am meant to stay with you.” He tugs on the reins of his camel, going on ahead. “Until your time comes.”

For a while, Seijuurou’s mind only registers the first half of the sentence, and he’s left baffled. ‘ _I am meant to stay with you.’_  The wind sings around him a symphony etched in the sand Kuroko treads on, and for the life of him Seijuurou cannot decipher why his heart drums along to it.

Only when the complete meaning behind Kuroko’s words settles into his mind does he start moving again, reins gripped skin-chafing tight.

The stars above twinkle playfully as the pair makes its way home.

* * *

The sun slowly falls asleep, diving behind golden mountains by the time they reach the castle. Things around the palace are as hectic as always, even during the evening.

Today seems to make for one of the livelier days, because something comes crashing right into Seijuurou’s leg, before falling on to the floor.

“Your majesty!” another voice calls from the corner. A middle-aged woman, with too many stress lines marring her face, bows deeply. “Please forgive my child’s foolishness! I shall take any punishment in her stead!”

“That is rather unnecessary.” Seijuurou offers a smile, kneeling down to help the small girl up.

She scrunches up her nose, “Thank ye.” She doesn’t appear to be older than six years. “An’ sorry.”

Seijuurou pats her on the head as a reward. "It is nice to see children enjoying their youth. But you must be careful, especially when it’s dark out and you cannot see what’s in your way.“ He reminds her strictly, but his tone is still soft. It’s enough to get a vigorous nod from her, promising to watch out for human walls from now on.

Kuroko watches the whole interaction with mixed thoughts. The kings from his time hardly paid attention to children, labeling most of them a burden on their treasures. All this and more, while showering their own offspring with jewels and clothes spun from gold.

He finds Seijuurou as confusing as fire walking on blue seas. Part of him wants to believe that this is just another manipulative act of putting flowers in people’s ears, like the kings from the past often would. A much bigger part of him wants to believe that Seijuurou—he is  _different_.

Much different from the kings of old who defiled Kuroko with their own flowers.

* * *

The next day brings Kuroko an unwarranted helping of the royal guard at his table.

"Tetsu!” A tanned arm finds its way around Kuroko’s shoulders. At this point, he’s learnt that it’s pointless to struggle when he’s as destructive as a training dummy with his powers locked. "You’re the best sparring partner ever.“

Kuroko sighs in response. He still doesn’t understand how Aomine managed to rope him into a one-on-one. Somewhere between all the excited grins and his unyielding persistence to get Kuroko to battle, Aomine tugged at Kuroko’s lenience like a child pulling at a pet cat’s tail until it finally succumbs to the incoming torture.

He is not the only child Kuroko has to deal with, however.

"I wanted to spar with you too, Kurokocchi,” comes the whine. If Aomine is an over-eager child then Kise is the clingy dog who slobbers Kuroko with attention he does not want.

Murasakibara has the decency to look concerned, until Kuroko realizes it’s his portion of food the giant is eyeing.

“Kuro-chin, can I have that if you’re not eating?” he finally asks. Kuroko gives him a shrug.

“But he hasn’t even touched his food at all!” Kise intervenes, worried lines of a doting mother scrunching his forehead.

“It’s alright, Kise-san.”

“No way! You’re so skinny too.” Kise doesn’t hide his fondness for manhandling as he holds up Kuroko’s arm.

Aomine turns to him as well. “The idiot’s right for once—”

“Hey!” Kise snaps.

The other only rolls his eyes and continues, “You can’t stay healthy if you don’t eat.”

This coming from a man who juggles swords in his free time; Kuroko barely manages to suppress a snort.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m quite alright,” he insists, but the others are having none of it.

“I’ve never seen Kurokocchi eat, though.”

“It isn't necessary for me,” replies Kuroko, about ready to tell them all to leave.

Kise doesn’t back down. “But still… don’t you ever feel hungry?”

“Even if I did possess an appetite for eatables, I  _cannot_  consume anything.” Kuroko reaches for a plump fruit, and in an instant it shrinks, turns to charred powder, sticking to his palm in clumps of decaying mush. 

From afar it looks like Kuroko’s own hand is diseased, black leaves quaffing on the milk of his skin. Though that’s hardly a stretch when the god of death rots everything living into starving fossils. He might as well be a disease-ridden corpse himself.

The room finally falls silent, but something keeps Kuroko from relief. The honest surprise in their eyes, perhaps, because it twists into his stomach until he feels like he might heave up smog from his lungs. He feels humiliated for reasons unknown, making him push his chair back.

“Please excuse me.”

Kuroko walks out the door, leaving the other three sitting in the shadows of his room.

The gardens behind the castle take quite some time to reach, which is why those who aren’t imposed with the duty to care for flowers prefer to enjoy it from afar. Kuroko immediately takes to this place, finally feeling like he can hide away from the world for a moment’s reprieve.

Today all the verbenas swaying in the summer breeze just remind him of death. He plucks a purple bud, only to have it burn away into the wind. He watches it crumble into ashes in his fist, slipping through the cracks between his fingers. He spreads his palm open and shakes off the rest.

What does he keep expecting? He already knows of the curse he spreads with his hands, there is no way to change it.

He can never hold life again.

After his contract ends, even humans will succumb to his touch, which brings home bone-churning miasma from the chasms of a dying world. Lying underneath pretty lips of flowerbeds and evergreen forests like an untold threat.

He realizes it wasn’t simply humiliation that dragged him out of his own room.

It was shame.

“How d'you do that?” something at his feet chirrups. It's the child from last night. Kuroko stares at her, and she stares back. Doe eyes blinking up at him, waiting for an answer.

“It is better for you to remain unaware,” he answers after a while.

She shrugs. "I don’t wan' to kill flowers anyway.“

Kill. Yes, that’s what Kuroko’s sole existence amounts to. To kill. "I am sure. I apologize for ruining your garden.” He straightens his back, thinking of where he could go next. He’s not quite ready to resign to the confines of his room just yet.

“No! Wait here!” she scurries back to palace halls. Kuroko’s once more left in the silent company of dancing verbenas. Foggy memories hide purple flowers from a time where they could sleep on his fingers without turning to dust.

Now their corpses cling to spiderwebs, vomiting black petals onto tattered drapes that hang skeletons over his dreams, as though those memories from millennium past are part of the illusion. As if they do not exist.

It makes no difference to Kuroko, who simply wants to lose himself in the imaginary world of breathing flowers again.

The girl comes running back to him with a sheet of parchment in her hands. She plucks a couple of tall stems, wrapping the sheet around them. She gestures Kuroko to put out his hands, slipping the bundle into his hold.

She clasps his hands in her tiny ones. “See, now you can’t kill them.”

Kuroko blinks with wide eyes.

Indeed, wrapping their entire stems up would keep them from directly touching his hands.

“… yes, thank you.” He breathes out, amazed to see such fragile things standing proud inside his grip for once. This hardly changes reality, and doesn’t quite shape the fantasies he longs for under the soft weight of sleep.

And yet.

He feels like he is something different for once.

The girl, he wants to ask for her name, but she just giggles and trots further into the field splashed with a myriad of colors.

“The flowers are flying!” she squeals in wonder.

Kuroko is the god who’s been stuck in perpetual winter, and he watches the girl run after fluttering petals made of dying hues of the sun. And after more than a thousand years, it’s today that he truly  _feels_. The summer melting into his skin, the icicles ridged in his heart breaking off into a stream of what feels like warmth, glowing—it feels like something he thought he could never feel after Momoi.

It feels like  _fondness_.

It washes over him, spilling into the cracks behind the stone of his emotions. After a thousand years, they break free and rush past his lungs, split open his lips, and pour out into soft words:

“They're butterflies.”

 

* * *

 

Kuroko doesn’t appreciate uninvited guests. Neither does Midorima.

The palace archives are open to all curious eyes, but the green-haired apothecary spends enough time here to call it home. Kuroko respects his space, which is why he says nothing when he is met with a glare.

“Kuroko,” he acknowledges the spectral presence and returns to perusing his scriptures.

“Midorima-san.” Kuroko takes a seat nearby, relieved when the other doesn’t react with another mean look. He doesn’t wish to retire to his room when it’s still light out. Midorima’s second home turns out to be the only place he can turn to now.

“What brings you here?” the man asks warily, gaze straying everywhere except sky blue eyes.

Amusement tugs at Kuroko’s cheeks. “Midorima-san is scared of me?”

The response is instant. “No, I simply do not trust gods of your nature. I only pray to the sun and the moon.”

“Distrust in gods, what blasphemy.” Kuroko deadpans. “Though perhaps the wisest choice of all…” He trails off, pursing his lips.

“Kuroko.” Midorima keeps his eyes on his reading material the whole time he’s talking. "You come from the east, do you not?“

"What makes you think that?”

“The way you speak,” he replies, squinting at the manuscript he’s holding. “The people of Teikou call it  _keigo_.”

Kuroko blinks. "Midorima-san, I have no idea what you’re talking about.“

He gets an annoyed huff in return, as Midorima brings the sheets closer to his face.

"Midorima-san, are you having trouble reading?" 

"No.” With how fiercely he is denying it, Kuroko reckons his guess spot on.

He stands up and walks to a corner of the room. He moves aside a few scrolls littering the side of one tall bookcase, reaching a hand into it to feel for a familiar circular bump. It is motor memory at this point, making him push in and slide around a panel. It comes off as smoothly as it used to a thousand years before.

He pokes and prods at the hollow space until there’s a cold, smooth edge digging into his fingers. He pulls it out and sets the stone panel back into place, heading back to Midorima’s side once he hears a soft click.

He sets a glass cube on top of the parchment that’s in Midorima’s hands.

“This here is a reading aid. The words appear bigger if you look through this,” explains Kuroko.

Midorima’s gaze flickers to the bookcase before settling on Kuroko. “How did you know…?”

He shrugs. "It seems the castle hasn’t seen much change in the thousand years I was gone. These things are rather valuable, which is why we used to keep them hidden.”

“I see.” He picks up the cube and, just like Kuroko says, the inked characters look much clearer to his impaired eyes. “Valuable indeed.”

A moment of silence passes between them, with Kuroko still standing at Midorima’s table while the other awkwardly fiddles with the cube, refusing to meet the shorter man’s eyes. It looks like he wants to say something, but he’s decided to keep mum.

Kuroko smiles. “As gratitude, I would like Midorima-san’s permission to stay here a little longer.”

All he receives is a grunt, and that is all Kuroko needs. He slides back into his seat, picking up one of the scrolls laid out on the table.

Midorima says nothing, doesn’t scold him for touching his material, and so the only course of communication they share from that point on is a comfortable silence.

Two days later, Seijuurou decides to make another trip to the village after receiving word from the messenger he’d left there. Without any guards following him this time, because the state the villagers are in right now demands little need for protection.

Kuroko doesn’t agree completely, which is why he comes across the blue-haired god on his way out.

“Must I remind you not to go off by yourself?” Kuroko scolds, though everything that comes out of his mouth is always wrapped in cotton soft weights. It’s a wonder how he manages to make himself heard when it’s needed.

“Would you mind coming along with me then?” Seijuurou offers with a smile, and Kuroko gets the sudden urge to hide his face.

“… You are riding a horse today,” he says, looking at the snow white mane of the horse, mesmerized.

“Indeed, your eyes have not failed you just yet,” he commends Kuroko, who hardly sees it as praise.

He holds out a hand towards the shorter male.

“Come.”

Kuroko instantly shakes his head no. “I shall go get—”

“It will be faster on a horse, Kuroko.” As if on cue, Yukimaru neighs readily, powerful hooves clacking against the earth.

For a while Kuroko only stares at the horse, trying to search through his memories for any instances of him ever riding one. He bites his lip and takes the proffered hand, allowing himself to be lifted with surprising ease. Underestimating Seijuurou because of his size might prove to be fatal. It’s not just the king's royal guard, Kuroko thinks, every single one of them is a freak of nature.

He almost slips off in his attempt to straddle the horse, if it weren’t for a strong arm looping around his torso, steadying him.

“Hold on to me,” Seijuurou tells him, turning back to face the front. Kuroko thinks the arm stays around him for a second too long, but he can never be too sure when it comes to this man.

He feels quite embarrassed for some reason, and he really wants to hide his face in Seijuurou’s back, but that sounds more counterproductive than anything. So he instead clutches onto the maroon robes of the king, curling his fingers around the softness.

Seijuurou makes sure the horse trots on even steps, for Kuroko’s sake, who couldn’t be any more grateful. He shifts, leaning closer to the human. The warmth radiating off his back barely evaporates the frost on Kuroko’s skin, but it’s a completely foreign feeling and he appreciates it nonetheless.

Looking at the small back in front of him, it is nothing less than amazing knowing it bears the burden of a hundred hopes and dreams. It’s small but stays firm and strong, making Seijuurou look all the more imposing in his regal posture. As if he was born and raised for this title.

“Kuroko,” his voice snaps Kuroko out of his thoughts.

“Yes, Akashi-san.”

“Back when we first met, you mentioned the name of the previous ruler, did you not?”

“Ah. The Haizaki clan.” It was a name carved into the wall of Kuroko's bones, more a curse than a memory.

Seijuurou furrows his brow lightly. "I’ve asked around. No one has ever heard of that name. The man we defeated simply went by the name Jamshid.“

"It was the name they used back in my time, they changed it right as I went into slumber. They’ve only carried titles ever since.” Kuroko pauses, looking up. “You have been given one too, I presume?”

 _Hushedar_. “I have asked not to be addressed in that manner.” He only wishes to be known as Akashi Seijuurou, not some nameless king without a face. He considers his words for a moment, before asking, “Was a title ever bestowed on you, Kuroko?”

“What led you to such a conclusion?” It is not an outright denial, Seijuurou notes.

“I presumed merely upon observation. You seem rather used to giving commands, and to be able to hold an audience with a low presence like yours… it does raise a few flags.”

Kuroko has already sworn to tell no lies, a feat that seems impossible around Seijuurou’s presence in any case. Must be part of the king’s charisma, to coax truth out of people, be it sycophants or rebels.

“You possess considerable skill in the art of deduction.” Kuroko remarks, taking a deep breath. “I suppose I was known as  _Kayomart_  once upon a time. The original ruler of the Rakuzan Empire.”

The very first emperor.

Of all things, Seijuurou has certainly not been expecting that.

* * *

“The castle you rule over. It was built in my name.” Kuroko admits to him on the way back, having found a camel to ride this time. He could definitely understand if Kuroko were a vengeful ghost trying to reclaim his throne, yet the only name he’s mentioned is Haizaki. Does Kuroko not see the throne as his own?

Something immediately clicks into place. “Tell me, Kuroko, have you observed any changes made to this castle?”

He shakes his head. “I have yet to notice any.”

That is how Seijuurou finds himself marching down a deserted hallway. Kuroko has given him a significant puzzle piece that has made everything else fall into order. If the layout truly has not changed in the past thousand years, it gives room to assume the existence of records dating back to the Dahaka’s time.

_“Kuroko, where did your people use to store records?”_

_“The archives that Midorima-san has currently made a nest out of.”_

_“No, Kuroko. Where did you hide the rest of them?”_

_“…I suppose I do not need to remind you that it is nothing but fruitless effort, whatever it is that you plan on doing with that information.” A pause. “You will find it underneath the castle. Always keep to the left.”_

Underneath the castle lies a series of underground tunnels. The Palace Catacombs.

Seijuurou vaguely recalls Shintarou telling him that it was once used as a place for rituals. Ancient group of cultists, he’d said. People refuse to venture in because of the horrible stories they have heard about the cult. There is no proof for any of it, but most have sworn to secrecy in order to let the rumors die out.

Though the main reason it has never been a popular attraction appears in the form of a giant man, who sits on guard by the entryway. A haggard face with small, sunken eyes, he resembles a ghost that has grown old from traversing the shadows of the earth.

“Oh, if it isn’t our king.” He croaks, voice too thin for a body so large.

“Why do you stand guard, knowing that no one dares set foot here?” Seijuurou asks straight away.

“I’ve been born into this. Our family is bound by tradition.” He rasps out. It is a sad thing to hear, both his words and the way his voice cracks as though this is the first time he’s spoken in years.

“Does this tradition make no exception for your king?”

The guard looks up at Seijuurou, as if to analyze him. He seems to have found what he was looking for in the stern lines of his king’s face, stepping aside without a word leaving his mouth.

Seijuurou nods his thanks, making his way down the stairwell.

The guard keeps his eye on a red-crested back until darkness swallows up his king.

* * *

Instantly Seijuurou’s torch starts to flicker after he reaches the last step. It’s almost as if he’s stepped right into the maw of a starving beast. With the way the walls appear to be closing in on him, his guess is as good as any.

He trudges on, hand on the left side of the walls just as Kuroko told him. The passageway takes him deeper into the heart of the castle. He’s shrouded in complete darkness that even the flames of his torch are too scared to repel. Before he can worry about his torch going out, he slips into a space between the stone walls.

The room he ends up in has lanterns fixed to the wall, which Seijuurou gladly starts lighting as he goes around the room. Soon a rancid odor begins to irritate his nose, but he pays no heed. A rattle against his feet causes him to pause. He brings the flame close to his feet, only to find a rusted series of links hanging from the wall. 

Chains.

A table, long enough to hold a human’s body, materializes in the middle of the room when he rushes to light the other lanterns. He steps towards it, and the horrible smell hits him full force, making him cough. Blocking his nose does nothing, the pungent air has already crawled into his mouth on copper claws. 

He tastes rusted metal in his mouth, not realizing why until he finally reaches the table. He recognizes this smell all too well, his hands have been covered with it too many times for him to count.

Blood.

The table has been sprayed with it from inch to inch. More than what one could get from cutting apart just one body. Whatever rumors have crept out of these catacombs, they certainly hold a kernel of truth. A very horrid truth.

He can’t breathe anymore, the stench is too strong. The blood-covered table looks like one half of a monstrous jaw, and all it needs is a coffin to complete the set. He forces himself through the tight space, stalking back to where he came from, lest any invisible hands drag him to the table to make him its next meal.

It comes, though without much relief, that he’s on the right track. He might truly find some valuable information here. He doesn’t know how affected he is by what he saw back there, but he’s beginning to have trouble breathing.

The air is thinning.

With no idea how deep this place goes, all he can do is trudge forward through the darkness. It almost feels like a weight on his back now, and the flame on his torch is shrinking. There’s no point in turning back now, his torch will die out soon either way.

That is until a different flight of stairs emerges into view. So narrow that he might just slip without support.

He climbs up on slow, careful steps, hoping that the air is not as stuffy above.

His wish comes true as he walks right into a clearing. A tall room with several pillars holding up a dome that has all sorts of symbolic animals carved into it. Lions, dogs, birds and bulls. Seijuurou can only hope that he hasn’t just stumbled across a sacrificial chamber.

He looks around, noticing how each of the pillars has been hollowed out right at his chest level. He brings his flame over to the space, and just as he’s predicted, sparks begin to dance around inside the pillar. Once they finally reach the middle of the crevice, flames erupt from the both sides of the pillar.

To think such a method was used back even during Kuroko’s time, perhaps Seijuurou's ancestors were more advanced than he’d assumed.

He watches the room brighten up with every flame coming to life. Soon it’s a festival of lights, illuminating an entire wall of scrolls spilling out like sand and mixing with yellowed manuscripts strewn across the floor.

Not that one can expect thousand-year annals of ancient civilization to be preserved wholeheartedly when there is no evidence for their existence in the first place. Let alone the fact that this place hardly looks well-explored, every inch of the room covered in a skin of cobwebs.

He slices through gossamer curtains with his torch, making sure nothing sticks to him. Dust clogs up his senses as he treads on, holding back every sneeze or cough with a grimace. When he reaches the wall of shelves, he doesn’t know where to start, picking up one random end of a scroll to examine it.

Shintarou was right, Kuroko and his people indeed hailed from the east. Although the character script is obsolete, Seijuurou can still decipher this form of writing.

Luckily, they have page numbers mentioned, and he spends the next few minutes arranging the manuscripts in order. As much as he can. Some are torn, ragged, and some with entire pages faded to the point he cannot comprehend the text at all.

A considerable amount still needs to be read through, and Seijuurou wastes no time getting to it.

Bathed in orange and golden lights, Seijuurou begins to read about the tale of the Dahaka.

* * *

Seijuurou doesn’t know how long he’s been here. The flames still dance around him in hollowed columns caging him to the wall of scriptures. He has gone through every page already, some more than once because he cannot believe what he’s reading.

This is all about Kuroko, the Dahaka. Whatever links the missing pages may have provided are now insignificant. Nothing more than tiny cracks in the big picture the rest of these scriptures paint with the blood of a thousand curses. There’s a graveyard of an ancient kingdom inscribed in faded ink and the only name it screams is Kuroko Tetsuya.

Seijuurou reads through everything. Again, again, and again.

Nothing changes. The words continue to stare back at him, mocking him with black spindly fingers that twist and turn to spell out the horror that enshrouds the Dahaka's origins.

When the fire on his torch threatens to die out again, he finally gets up. Bundles up all scrolls and scripture into his arms, walking towards one of the flaming pillars.

One by one, he shoves them all into the fire, watching as the flames explode and devour every last shred of Kuroko’s history.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Momoi: haha did anyone catch that KuroMomo hint I slid in/ i’M SO SORRY I swear there’s only one teeny tiny flashback scene with like 5-6 lines between them and that’s it.
> 
> Next chapter: horrible, horrible flashback sequence.


End file.
